


i'll eat you up [you better run]

by pagan_mint



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Goretober, Goretober 2019, Horror, Morgan Vorr... Mason Verger... get it, Supernatural - Freeform, TECHNICALLY not a Hannibal crossover, Wendigo, creature - Freeform, cryptid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2020-11-22 03:40:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20867594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagan_mint/pseuds/pagan_mint
Summary: Finch feels vaguely like he may have disassociated, or blacked out, or simply refused to acknowledge what just happened in front of him. All he knows is that one moment, Morgan is moving to kill him. The next, the man is on his hands and knees, trembling in desperate pleading and, perhaps, worship, before something too-black and too-tall, with too-many-too-long teeth and massive, spreading dark antlers that block out most of the dim ceiling lighting.John Reese is nowhere to be seen.





	i'll eat you up [you better run]

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to Ke$ha for the title and thank you to me for this self-indulgence

Harold Finch prides himself on knowing everything there is to know about John Reese. His personality, his habits, how he would react in a given situation, etc. And so, he does not realize how very wrong he is until a series of unfortunate events lands them in the clutches of their number of the week, a serial killer and sadist by the name of Morgan Vorr (241-23-9605).

Now, in a dimly lit warehouse near the bar, Morgan leans over the chair that John Reese is bound to and says silkily,

“I know what you are.”

Reese smiles, his lips curving upward in an easy, languid expression of confidence. It makes Finch relax, incrementally but noticeably. Reese knows what he’s doing; Reese has dealt with this before. It’s certainly not the first time they’ve crossed paths with someone from Reese’s past, someone who saw him work when the CIA - or more specifically, Mark and Kara - had their claws in him. He will get them out of this.

“I could say the same thing about you, Morgan. Mild-mannered banker by day, sadistic torturer by night? A little cliche, don’t you think?”

Morgan laughs, a harsh bark of pleased sound, and produces a knife. It’s not large, a simple Swiss Army knife with a reasonable blade, but Finch’s breath still catches at the sight of it. Though he does not expect what Morgan does with it; rather than inflict injury on Reese, the madman turns it on himself, slicing a shallow cut along the inside of his wrist that wells red against his pale skin. He does it at a showy angle, displaying it to Reese, making him watch. And he is watching, Finch realizes - his gaze is fixed on the injury, with that vivid intensity he gets when he thinks a situation is about to go bad. Morgan is declining rapidly, proving to be unstable, and as far as Finch can tell, Reese has not been able to work himself free from his bonds yet. Of course he would be paying particular attention.

“I _know_ what you _are_,” Morgan repeats firmly. “I know what to look for. I’ve done my research. On your kind and you, specifically. And it’s been a long, _long_ time since you’ve fed, hasn’t it?” The knife snaps shut, goes back into the pocket it came out of, and Finch watches in horror as Morgan dips a thumb in his own blood and then leans forward to smear it across Reese’s lips. The violent splash of red is darker already than it should be, oxygen exposure turning it to a rusty maroon that looks like war paint against Reese’s defined features. Finch is about to say something - anything to stop this madness - when his voice dies in his throat at the sight of Reese’s tongue darting out to lap at his own mouth. It’s fast, and only the once, but.

Still.

“I can feed you,” Morgan croons. He sounds like he’s talking to a frightened animal. “I can sate that hunger.”

“That’s not who I am anymore,” Reese says. His voice is rough, dragging against something Finch can’t (won’t) define on its way out of his throat.

This doesn’t feel right. This _isn’t_ right. There’s something deeply wrong. Ever since all this began, ever since - since Nathan - Finch has been particularly adept at sensing when things are very awry, and those senses are absolutely screaming at him now. Morgan Vorr is not someone from Reese’s past. Finch would know if he was, because after that first time with Snow, he left no stone unturned when it came to unearthing future potential threats to Reese’s wellbeing. But whoever Morgan_ is,_ he’s someone who has rattled Reese, someone who’s leaning in to keep talking to him.

“You’re not a person,” he tells Reese. “Not anymore, if ever you were. Why are you playing this game where you pretend to be one? Why would you try to hide what you are?” The words are breathless, excitement and wonder coloring every word. “Why would you willingly deny yourself the one thing that keeps you alive, more than that, the thing that _defines_ your very being?”

Reese’s gaze is still locked on Morgan. Stays on him as Morgan grabs his chin, tries to force him to look towards Finch.

“Is it him?” Morgan asks softly. “Is he the one holding your leash?”

Reese’s jaw tightens, imperceptible to anyone who didn’t have intimate familiarity with his every microexpression. Morgan leans in, even closer, until his lips are brushing Reese’s cheek near his ear.

“Do you want me to cut it?”

“Mr. Vorr,” Finch says. His voice sounds too loud, even in the vast emptiness of the warehouse. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish? We are close with the police, and my associates will certainly have noticed that I’ve gone missing by now. Not to put too fine a point on it, but I am a very important man.” More than Morgan Vorr could ever possibly know, but in this case, he is simply referencing the identity that Morgan knows him by. Mr. Peacock is an _extremely_ wealthy and moderately narcissistic investor with no time for shenanigans such as kidnapping or threats.

Too hard, too fast, Morgan breaks all contact with Reese and moves to Finch. It only takes a second, perhaps two, and then he and all of his tall, thin, hostile energy are in Finch’s space. The knife is back, too, flashing open and playing with the too-thin skin on Finch’s throat.

“What do you want.” Reese’s voice is flat and distinctly unhappy. He sounds, Finch realizes with a sudden mounting horror, _defeated._

“I told you,” Morgan says smugly. “I did my research. I bound you with iron - I could do anything I want to your friend here, and you would have no choice but to sit there and let me. Even all your bodyguard training can’t help you escape the basic tenet of what you are.” He removes the knife with a flourish; Finch can’t see it, but he can feel the thin red line left behind on his throat.

“I know what you are,” Morgan says. “Now I want to see you. Come on, John. Don’t be shy. I’m sure you’re beautiful.” He spreads his arms wide, like a preacher delivering a sermon. _“Show me.”_

Reese stares at him for what feels like an interminable length of time. Then, slowly, he smiles. This one is far different from his first. This one is broader, predatory. Sharp. Contains too many teeth, or at least more than should be able to fit in a human mouth.

“Finch,” he says. His voice is the same as when Mark shot him on the roof, when he told Finch not to come for him. Quiet, grateful. “Thank you.”

Nothing happens immediately; at first there’s simply a quiet crack, the sound of bone breaking. Then Reese stands, one smooth movement. He brings his hands together in front of him, and his broken thumbs remold themselves, become whole.

“You’re not very good at doing research,” Reese says. His voice is that too-mild tone it adopts when he’s been cornered, when he’s about to do something he knows Finch won’t like. “Anyone can break out of a pair of handcuffs, Morgan. Even if the material they’re made of causes some unnecessary discomfort.”

Morgan Vorr makes a noise in the back of his throat, thin and high, and Finch realizes distantly that it is one of animalistic terror. He moves towards Finch, knife forefront, and Reese clicks his tongue.

“Bad move,” he murmurs, and then -

And then -

Finch feels vaguely like he may have disassociated, or blacked out, or simply refused to acknowledge what just happened in front of him. All he knows is that one moment, Morgan is moving to kill him. The next, the man is on his hands and knees, trembling in desperate pleading and, perhaps, worship, before something too-black and too-tall, with too-many-too-long teeth and massive, spreading dark antlers that block out most of the dim ceiling lighting. John Reese is nowhere to be seen.

“Please,” Mason says. And, daring to lift his head: “Please. We could be beautiful together.”

The thing makes a noise, words maybe, but not in any language Finch has heard or would care to hear again. There is a constant flickering; Finch thought it was the lights behind it at first, but it’s the entirety of the being before him. It remains vaguely humanoid, but continues to vacillate in size, between roughly six feet and something that shouldn’t fit in even the massive space of the warehouse. Sometimes it has the body of a stag, but keeps the torso of a man. The antlers are the only thing that remain consistent: them and the teeth.

“You’re hungry,” Mason begs. “I can feed you. _Please._ I’m offering you - anything, everything you could possibly want - ”

The creature makes a sound. Finch thinks it might be a snarl, but he cannot be sure, as it is purely inhuman and unearthly and he has no idea what manner of emotion to ascribe to it. Mason Vorr screams - and stops screaming, because the creature moves in a blur of motion that cannot be tracked with human eyes and then he is gone. Simply - _gone,_ no blood or bone or marks to indicate that he had ever been there, save the fact that Finch is still bound to his chair.

Finch tenses, prepared to have the creature’s full attention transferred to him. Instead, it spits something out - Mason’s knife, which clatters across the warehouse floor and eventually comes to a rest. Finch’s gaze follows it, frantically, involuntarily, and when he looks back to the creature, there is only John Reese. John Reese, who does not make eye contact as he walks over to pick up the knife, walks back and cuts the ropes tying Finch in place.

“Guess we have to catch a cab,” Reese says. “Can you walk?”

Finch senses, acutely, the need to choose his words with extreme care.

“Of course I can walk, Mr. Reese,” he says lightly. “I have only been sitting here, after all. Lead the way.”

Outside, Reese tries to put Finch in a cab and leave. Finch has not made a study of Reese and all his moods over the years to fail to expect this; his fingers close on Reese’s wrist like a vise, and he makes Reese look at him. Looks into eyes that are almost entirely black, only just starting to filter back into a more human appearance in the outer corners.

“Get in the car, Mr. Reese,” he says. And Reese does.

It is not a conversation that can be ignored or left for a later time. Finch walks through the gate to the Library’s inner sanctum, then turns immediately at the sound of the gate being closed too soon for Reese to have gotten through.

“I thought this would make you feel safer,” Reese says. Despite his light tone, almost joking, his eyes bely the slight lift to his lips. His fingers are draped casually through the gate, but a closer look reveals whitened knuckles, the desperate clutch of a drowning man.

“I just spent an entire car ride next to you, John,” Finch says. “I think we can share this room.”

“Maybe this just makes me feel safer,” Reese concedes. He blinks, and his eyes are back to normal for an instant before they aren’t. His words startle a laugh out of Finch, one more of surprise than any humor.

“From what?”

“I’m a wendigo,” Reese says. “I eat people. I have to eat people to survive. That was - my first meal in quite a while. I don’t… trust myself around you right now.”

“If your hunger is truly that unstable, then I’d much rather you eat me than some innocent out on the streets,” Finch says fiercely. “Please come inside.”

Dismal, Reese nods and slides the gate open. Finch indicates a seat, and Reese obediently places himself in it. Finch limps to retrieve his desk chair and rolls it over so that they are across from each other before sitting himself.

“So,” Finch says, because Reese clearly has no intentions of speaking without being spoken to. “I thought my file on you was quite exhaustive. It seems I was mistaken.”

Reese’s upper lip lifts at the corner in an odd expression, like a dog forgetting itself and starting to snarl before thinking better of it.

“I don’t know if there are others like me,” he says. “I would assume so. But certainly the CIA did not have knowledge of my kind before - hm. Easier to say that the official story behind their acquisition of me isn’t entirely the truth. It wasn’t an accident, anyway. Nor was my placement with Mark and Kara.”

Finch’s eyes widen as he makes the connection.

“I always thought they were oddly… aggressive, for official government agents,” he says carefully. Reese snorts.

“They were sociopaths,” he says calmly. “They got what they wanted or they killed people - and they frequently didn’t get what they wanted. Why bother with cover-ups and hiding bodies when you have a personal garbage disposal? It was easier for everyone.”

“Not for you,” Finch objects. For some reason, Reese flinches from the statement.

“What’s easy for me isn’t… important,” he says slowly, words he must know Finch would disagree with. “I’ve tried to be better, tried to be - more. But Vorr was right. I’m just a creature, bound to my nature.”

“Morgan Vorr was a very bad person, and very wrong,” Finch retorts. Reese simply looks at him.

“Was he wrong? You saw what I am. What I can do.” He folds his hands together in his lap, making himself smaller, less threatening. “I _ate_ him, Finch.”

“After he threatened me and goaded you to no end. And to my understanding, you were starving yourself before that,” Finch says He leans forward. “Though I have not made a study of cryptozoology, I am aware of the basic traits of a wendigo. How long had it been since your last meal, if I may ask?”

Reese’s answer is immediate. “A few days before Mark told me Kara couldn’t be trusted.” He shakes his head at Finch’s sharp intake of breath. “My biology isn’t like a human’s. It was bad, but manageable. I shouldn’t have - eaten Vorr. I would have been fine without. I just…” He sighs. “He was willing to threaten you to get me to do what he wanted. I didn’t want him to ever have the chance to do that again. I know that’s not an excuse. I know I broke your rules.”

“I’m not sure I really have rules for this sort of situation,” Finch says faintly. His mind was wandering, now, thinking through possibilities. “How fresh would a body have to be to - ”

He doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence. Reese is up and out of his chair, backing up to reduce any appearance of a threat.

“Finch, no. It’s - I don’t care what I am. I don’t want to go back to that. And I certainly don’t want you to - to _cater_ to me.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the smaller man says, mildly offended. “John, does human food sustain you?”

“It can,” Reese says. “It takes the edge off.”

“Would you be happier and more able to do your job if you could eat what you need to in order to survive?”

“No,” Reese says wildly.

“I have done you the courtesy of never telling you a lie,” Finch snips. “Kindly extend me the same.”

Reese looks like he’d been shot. Or wants to be.

“When I was with the CIA,” he rasps, sounding like he was making a particularly unpleasant report, “I was unstoppable, bar certain precautionary methods and disciplinary tactics that Kara and Mark were sure to enforce. Provided with - human flesh, on a regular basis, I am not certain there is nothing I could not do if asked.”

Finch nods.

“I understand your reluctance, John,” he says quietly. “Please understand this is not something I would force upon you. But, as I have been presented with indisputable evidence that you are not human, then it falls to me, as your _friend_ if not as your employer, to make sure you are happy and healthy.”

“I’m a _monster,”_ Reese says ferociously. “I could - ”

“But you won’t,” Finch overrides him. “And that’s what makes all the difference between the John Reese I know, and the one the CIA and Morgan Vorr thought they knew. You don’t have to be human to be a good person. I was not afraid of you in the warehouse, and I’m not afraid of you now.” To prove his point, he stands, crosses the four or five steps to where Reese is standing with his back against the wall. Lays a hand on his chest, looks into his eyes. They are perfectly human again, no trace of inconceivable eldritch horror to be seen.

“Let me help you,” he says, and is abruptly aware of breath beneath his hand that was conspicuously not present before.

The organization Mr. Crane sets up is unorthodox, but manageable. Criminals from states with the death penalty, notably only the ones who have committed the worst of the most unspeakable crimes and have been proven indisputably guilty, are added to a list. The bodies that end up on that list are sent to an undisclosed location, presumably to be used for highly confidential scientific research, and they are not seen again. The Man in the Suit grows faster and exponentially more efficient, and the criminals of New York murmur foreboding and conspiracy theories amongst themselves.

As for the man in the glasses, well.

He is quite content.


End file.
